


all i want this year for christmas is new year's day

by queenwithoutacrown



Category: The Punisher (TV 2017)
Genre: F/M, Inspired by A Christmas Carol
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-12-18
Updated: 2017-12-18
Packaged: 2019-02-16 19:03:51
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,350
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13060224
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/queenwithoutacrown/pseuds/queenwithoutacrown
Summary: Frank really does try to live his new quiet life, to begin with. But these guys are robbing a young woman in a back alley on Christmas Eve and he's seeing red.(Frank and Christmas Past, Present and Yet To Come)





	all i want this year for christmas is new year's day

Frank really does try to live his new quiet life, to begin with.

But those assholes are robbing a young woman in a back alley on Christmas Eve and he's seeing red. It smells of old fat and undefinable garbage when he's coming at them, lunging at the one closest to him.  
  
There are four of them, with guns and knives and he's The Punisher and unarmed, so it's almost evenly matched. He's got the element of surprise on his side, getting between the biggest one and the woman still in her work uniform.

"Run," he yells and she's scrambling to her feet and gone as fast as the wind.

The fight's short, they are still green behind their ears and they don't know shit. Frank has three of them on the ground, unconscious and bleeding, as he throws the fourth against the brick wall of the alley.

"You ever do that again, I'll find you and end your lives just like that."

The guy only nods, before he slumps to the ground. Frank picks up their guns, leaving the assholes behind. He doesn't care who takes care of them, not his business. He dumps the guns and the ammo in separate gullies. 

It takes him half a mile to notice the blood on his leg.

It's warm, still running down and it's his own. Never a good sign. The pain sets in with a flash and he's gritting his teeth. He pokes at the tender flesh of his thigh and blood's seeping through the ripped fabric of his jeans.

Fucking asshole stabbed him.

And the wound's still bleeding.

He's going through his choices and calculates his chances. If the knife had hit the femoral artery, it would be bleed a lot heavier. Still, he isn't sure who far he's gonna get with it. Especially not when somebody's gonna see him like this and call an ambulance, or worse the cops.

The new identity's not some get out of jail free card.

Of course there's the most obvious option, though he is reluctant to take it. It's Christmas Eve and she doesn't deserve this. But Frank knows exactly how far away Karen's apartment is - 0.8 miles.

He could do that.

She'd probably bite off his head and he'd deserve it, with the limited contact they've had since everything went to hell.

He'd take his chances though. Fortunately for him the neighbourhood is quiet, only lights blinking and the anticipation of the holiday in the air.

People are spending the evening with their families and friends in cozy homes, not strolling around in the middle of the chill night fighting some stupid assholes and getting injured as a consequence.

The 0.8 miles feel like 80 and he's got one hand pressed to his thigh the entire time. It doesn't look good and really, nobody should see him like that. The picture it paints is not a favourable one.

Frank reaches her apartment building after what feels like ages and lets himself in. The security measures are nothing to brag about. He drags himself up the stairwell, until her door comes into view and he would've slumped against it, if he hadn't smeared his blood on it.

The knock of his knuckles against the door is loud in the quiet hallway and he can hear footsteps coming closer. Then the door is open and light is spilling out into the dimly lit hallway.

"Sorry to interrupt," he mumble as her gaze flickers all over him and stills at the bleeding injury.

"How come I only ever get to see you when you need my help," she says, ushering him inside into her apartment. It sounds resigned and he really can't blame her. It's not fair, he knows. He notices the gun she tucks back into the waistband of her yoga pants and decides to not say anything about the missing security.

It's the first time he's seen her this casual, except maybe that night by the water with the wind messing up her hair, when he'd caved and kissed her cheek. And even then the darkness had clouded her in mystery.

Karen's always so put together, surrounded by an aura of purpose. Her clothes are as much of a statement as the skull on his vest, he's realized, an armour. So getting to see her in the washed out t-shirt, the cardigan, the yoga pants, it feels special somehow.

Or it's part of the blood loss and the fading adrenaline.

She takes his arm and gently pulls him into a tiny bathroom with barely enough space for one person, them together is definitely the limit. Frank sits down on the edge of her shower/bathtub combo.

"Are you gonna faint on me?" Karen asks, a first aid kit in her hands.

"No, it looks worse than it is."

"You're lucky I'm lacking a social life and feeling the charitable Christmas spirit tonight."

"I am," he says and means it. "You don't have to patch me up, I can do it."

"It's no big deal."

"Sure is," he replies. Frank looks up at her from his sitting position, hoping he can properly convey his intent. Karen patching him up would mean she'd get close, too close, her hands on his leg and he doesn't have energy to deal with it.

Her lips pressed into a thin line, she hands over the kit. She had always been too good at reading him, it's why he has to keep some distance. "I'll be outside, in case you need anything." She closes the bathroom door behind herself and he wants to run his head through the wall until he stops thinking.

He takes off his jeans and inspects his thigh. The gash is long, deep, but he'll live. Karen's first aid kit is exactly that, and not some marvellous substitute for a visit to the ER, but it's sufficient for his needs. She's even got the good butterfly sutures.

It takes him the better part of half an hour to close the wound, wash away the blood and pull his pants back on. It takes him another five minutes to prepare himself to face her again.

But when Frank opens the door Karen is busy looking at the TV, but immediately turns around towards him. "Better?" she asks. He doesn't deserve the small smile tugging at her mouth.

"Yeah. Thanks for-, for the kit. For letting me in."

"Sure, always. Are you staying?" There's something hopeful in the tone of her voice.

"I shouldn't," he says, but it's not a No.

Karen knows it as well. "You can have the couch, because I'm sure you'll climb out of the window if I offer you my bed."

Yeah, too damn good at reading him.

"Thanks. I'll be out of your hair in the morning."

She hums something in agreement or disagreement, it's a little up in the air. He sits down on the couch and lets out a shallow breath of air. His makeshift first aid hadn't included an anaesthetic, not that he needs one, he's had worse, but he still feels the pain shooting through his nerves.

A palm appears at the edge of vision, a small pill nestled inside it. "Take this."

Frank looks up at her. "What's this?"

"Oxy. You get exactly one."

"How did you get that?"

"I'm friends with stupid vigilantes, remember? I get kidnapped a lot, doctors seem to think I can't handle pain," she answers nonchalantly. But there is the edge again, a dare to object. He isn't reckless enough to respond to that.

Instead he takes the pill and swallows it dry. "Thanks."

He settles back against the couch, Karen intently watching him from the matching seat next to it. "What were you even doing out there?"

Isn't that the 1-million dollar question? He can't really answer it for himself, less of all her. He only knows that he was suffocating in his place and he had to get out, somehow scratching the itch underneath his skin.

The run-in with those dumbasses hadn't been the plan, but it has helped immensely.

"Just taking a walk."

"Hmm." It's the sensible thing to do, not calling him out on his bullshit that is. "Get some rest." 

The TV is a background noise, drowned out by the sheer presence of her in the room. Sleep comes quickly, pulling him under until there's nothing left to think about but the soft sound of Karen's voice as a lullaby in his ears. 

 

* * *

 

His dreams have always been too real for his taste. In the aftermath of that day, it had been a curse and a blessing equally. In his dreams his life hadn't turned into a nightmare, but every morning waking up had turned into hell.

Right now, he isn't sure where he is exactly.

Frank remembers the pain in his leg, falling asleep on Karen's couch, feeling safe. But now he's standing in a different living, a Christmas tree standing tall in one corner of the room. It feels too real to be a dream, yet nothing adds up.

The thing is, he remembers the place, has been here before. Has even lived here for a good part of his life. The air is filled me the smell he connects to his childhood, ordinary yet unimitable.

The glow from the fireplace emits a warmth even he can feel. Frank runs his hands over the rough texture of the wall, but he feels nothing. His arm doesn't magically go through the brick walls, which he half expected to be honest, but there is no sensation in his nerve endings.

He turns at a noise from behind him. A young boy with a mop of black hair taps into the living room soft-footed, staring at the present under the tree in awe.

Frank is equally stunned, by the boy though. Basically meeting himself as a child is not something he ever considered possible. He, the boy, should be about eight or nine years old, it's difficult to pinpoint. But it's definitely him, only decades ago.

The young him stands before the tree, but he doesn't touch anything. The sound of footsteps coming from the staircase and Frank knows who is going to come into view now.

And then there is his mother in her old-fashioned bathrobe, singular grey strands of her among the dark brown and a kind, yet chastising smile on her face. "Not yet. Give your father a chance to wake up," she says.

Frank been the child his parents had so desperately wished for, only twenty years late. His father had been a decade older than his mother, and she had been 44 when he'd been born.

They had never let him know, never said anything, but he's pretty damn sure he hadn't been in their cards anymore at that point.

It's why when Maria had announced her pregnancy after only a few months together, it had been a shock but not unwanted. He had always wanted to be a young father, unlike his own. He had wanted to be there for his kids and spend as much time in their lives as humanly possible.

He doesn't miss the irony of it.

But his parents, they'd loved him. He hadn't appreciated it enough as a boy, as a teenager, but nowadays he knows why they'd considered themselves lucky by his birth. In hindsight, everything's easier to understand, to appreciate.

Sometimes he misses them. It's part of the package deal of regrets Frank keeps to himself. There had never been enough time and isn't that the story of his life?

Louisa laughs at the young him and his impatience. "Just a few more minutes." The boy obeys, though he almost shakes with excitement. 

Frank only sees a glimpse of his father's face in the doorway, before the world starts to shake. Everything around him fades, colours seeping out of the furniture, the walls; like old photographs. It all vanishes into darkness.

 

\-----

 

Hearing is the first sense to come back to him. The crying of a small baby, loud and desperate. Only when his eyes open and he finds himself standing in a familiar kitchen Frank knows where he is.

The vision is a lot more specific this time around, with him actually having memories of it, less far from the present. Frank watches himself, once again, but this time he's carrying around a crying Frankie and Lisa's clinging to his legs.

It had been one of the few Christmases they'd spent together as a real family. He'd applied for leave months ahead and by some miracle it had worked out.

They'd been so young, so small.

He wants to yell at the other him to take them and run, protect them from what's going to come in a future that's far away and yet so close, but there's no point and he's so tired.

There's nothing he can do but calm his little boy and entertain his little girl, while Maria's in the living room lighting the candles on the tree. It had been a lot of effort, Frank remembers, but they had tried.

He knows what's going to happen next, so all he does is watch in silence.

Maria steps into the kitchen, still in her pyjamas like the rest of them, a smile plastered all over her face. She takes Frankie out of his younger self' arms, while he hoists Lisa on his hips and then she kisses him, first on the lips, then the nose.

Whatever fucking fever dream this is, he wants it to go on forever and end straightaway all at the same time. This is when they'd been happy, when the world had been alright. But he knows the truth is different, knows what awaits upon waking. 

He's still got that, the memory of happiness, of joy. 

Maybe one day it's not gonna be clouded with pain, he hopes. 

They walk into the living room together, Lisa's eyes as big as saucers, but Frank stays behind in the kitchen, unsure if he could even leave it if he wanted to. He had been at exactly this place, he can't change a goddamn thing. It'll never be alright, but one day he might be able to live with it. 

The air vibrates, a low humming sound. It spreads to the kitchen counter, the glasses and plates until it all shakes. The colour drains, leaving everything in grey and white and then, black.

 

* * *

 

He wants to say he's more prepared for it when he opens his eyes again, but it's a goddamn lie. Every atom of his body feels like it dissolved into thin air and rebuilt him in a different place. It's unsettling.

Frank knows where he is, he always does it seems. It doesn't make it easier though.

Daylight spills through the windows, a hard cold white so characteristic for the winter months. The apartment is silent. The TV is running but muted, a news channel with big headlines about the daily struggles of the whole world. The time and date in the corner read 15:23, December 24th.

He hears her before he sees her, quietly muttering something to herself. Frank walks over to the kitchen and there she is. Notes and papers are spilled all over the dining table, her fingers flipping through them methodically.

Karen is completely engrossed in her work, but then he isn't really here anyway. She's wearing the same clothes she did when he'd turned up at her place in the middle of the night. It makes sense, even though it doesn't. 

He hadn't realized it, preoccupied with his injury and with the lights on in the dark, but in the cold light of day the apartment looks empty. Like something out of an IKEA catalogue. Her research is the only part that makes it real, lived in. If you took Karen out of the apartment, there'd be no indicator somebody even lived here.

There are no signs of Christmas either. There's no tree, not even a fake one. Not a single light, bauble, hell not even fir branch, nothing. 

It looks so damn lonely, and the words she'd yelled at him many weeks ago wash over him like a flood of regret.

_we're just fighting not to be alone_

Maybe this is her fight, throwing herself into work and save other people's lives so her loneliness is not as prominent in her own.

She doesn't deserve a life like this, a Christmas spent alone without another soul. That's a life meant for him, who has nobody left behind. But who is there for Karen, really? He doesn't know all that much about her life, nothing past what she has willingly shared with him.

He'd never truly fathomed just how deep her scars run.

Time moves in fast motion, indicated by the setting of the sun. She only moves to get coffee and fix herself a bowl of cereals. This is her Christmas Eve, alone with coffee. A knock on the door slows it all down. 

Her eyes widen, pulling her gun out of her bag, never far out of reach. Not gonna lie, he's oddly proud of her self-preservation instinct. But at the same time he can't believe her first reaction is defence, that a friendly surprise visit from the lawyer or a neighbour is so far out of the realm of possibility, it doesn't even cross her mind.

The moment the Frank from only hours ago steps over the threshold, he's gone.

 

* * *

 

He knows it's him standing in front of the shiny, fancy coffee machine.

All of it, every single moment he's seen so far, it's all got a theme to it and well, he's the key element of it and there's no point in denying it.

He's old though, he, the man making coffee. Not that old, not ancient, but surely scratching at his 70's, with greying hair and wrinkles. Frank is reminded of his father and it's a little worrisome if he's honest.

The man moves like his joints ache him, slowly and a little stiff. Frank is the first to admit that his constant injuries are probably not ideal in the long run. But then he'd never thought he'd get to see himself to ever reach such an old age when he had started his crusade. He'd never thought past the current moment, hoping to join his family rather soon than later.

Frank takes a closer look at his surroundings. He's standing at the kitchen island of an open kitchen, in the middle of a sizeable apartment. It looks empty, but not lonely.

It's not a rundown shack, but actually got some unnecessary decoration in the most random places. There's a nice Christmas tree blinking in the living room space. Outside the windows the night turns to dawn, black bleeding into soft orange. Fat snow flakes rain down from above.

The old Frank is taking two white mugs out of cupboard and continues preparing the coffee. He's concentrated on the task at hand.

Frank's got to admit that it's weird. Watching the young version of himself was like seeing a video of himself he had long forgotten about. He actually had faded memories about it, real memories.

This, this now is different. He's watching himself, but it's not him, not yet. It's a man who has lived, who's survived and it's scaring the ever-living shit out of him just thinking about it.

But it's not like he's got a choice. Frank supposes there's got to be a point to this, even if all he wants to do is close his eyes and sleep for 100 years.

There's a sound coming from his right, down the hallway. A shuffling in front of the door, metal on metal, a key stuck into a lock. Old Frank doesn't seem concerned at all. Frank is waiting with bated breath.

A woman comes into view, or at least her face, as it's the only part of her that's visible through the layers of clothes. She's got a grey beanie on her head, and a scarf so big it could house a small family wrapped around her neck. There's a cotton bag with a Red Cross sign dangling from her shoulder.

Her smile is so big and bright, it might power the whole city, sunshine condensed into a person.

From an outsider's point of view, the old him doesn't look in a shape bad enough to warrant a caretaker looking after him. Hasn't crossed his mind, at least. But maybe his mind isn't sound anymore, after all the concussions, after the bullet.

The woman looks kind enough, shrugging out of her coat and shedding her gloves, the scarf, the beanie. "It's like walking through a snow globe outside."

The old Frank grumbles something unintelligible and puts the coffee mug in front of her. She doesn't show the slightest inclination to help him in any way. Frank scoffs. She isn't wearing any scrubs either, only has plastic watch on her wrist, bright pink with flowers like kids are wearing them.

She tucks a strand of her tousled blond hair behind her ear, before taking a cautious sip. Every feature in her face lights up like the chain of lights on the tree in the corner. "You're my hero, Dad. Merry fucking Christmas."

_Dad._

Something inside of him shatters. The feeling of a knife running through his insides, tearing everything apart fills his body. It feels like betrayal and he prays to wake up, begs to be struck down by lighting.

This isn't real, he tells himself. It isn't. It isn't. It isn't.

But it feels real, like the memory of him as a young boy was real, like watching Karen was real.

He thinks about Lisa. Comparing the two of them makes him want to throw up, but he just can't not. He has no idea what she would've have looked had she ever had the chance to grow up and he's got not picture of the blonde woman as a child, so it's a futile point. But the thought's there.

She looks kind, he realizes once again. They've got the same eyes, a brown so dark it's almost black. It's a stark contrast to her pale skin and the light hair.

"Language." It's the first time Frank hears himself talk. The voice is still the same, rougher maybe. He believes to hear something close to amusement in his tone.

"How was your shift?" he asks, inhaling his own coffee.

"Long, but quiet. The kids love Christmas and the nurses did such a great job decorating. We did some gift giving with their parents just now. I got presents too and at least ten different drawings."

There it is again, her big smile. Frank's a little weak in the knees.

She looks at her father with love and happiness. She's old enough and certainly smart enough to know what he has done, to know about the blood that is sticking to his hands, know about _The People vs. Frank Castle_. She doesn't look as if she she minds, not in that moment.

He has a daughter, a daughter that's all grown up. He wants to scream at whatever fucking sorcery this is, but he has lost his voice. It doesn't feel fair or right, but it feels true and that's what hurts the most.

"Mom's still asleep?" she asks over the steaming cup of coffee. "I want presents."

"What, are you five?" A female voice.

Frank turns, waits for the punch to the gut. He has known all along, he thinks. Ever since the moment his daughter had tucked her hair behind her ear and smiled at him. Like mother, like daughter.

Karen's wearing glasses, but she's still got that keen look in her eyes. Everything about her is still _her_ , even so far from the now he's used to. She presses a soft kiss to their daughter's temple. "Merry Christmas."

"Merry Christmas, Mum." 

The older Frank hands over another cup of coffee, their hands lingering. It looks like intimacy, looks like love, looks like it might be alright one day. 

"Is this real?" And he would be ashamed of how his voice breaks, if he weren't so sure it's all just a figment of imagination. The all familiar darkness is coming back, swallowing it all up, Jonah and the whale.  

 

* * *

 

 

Frank awakes with a jolt, electricity running through his body. A blanket is covering his body from neck to toe. He's sitting upright in a matter of seconds. 

"Easy, cowboy."

Karen's hand grasps his ankle under the blanket and squeezes lightly. His heart pounds in his chest. The last cobwebs of his dream finally evaporate into thin air, but there's still the general sense of what he's experienced. It's hazy, he couldn't recite his dreams to save his life.

_The way his hands had grazed hers._

"You slept well?" 

It takes him a moment to answer, too caught up. "Yeah. You?"

She nods, or tries to, but then her expression sours and a hand goes up to her shoulders. "Sure, though my neck may disagree. Had to check your breathing." 

Another debt he can't repay.

He looks around him, not finding a single sign of Christmas.  Given the orange sunrise outside, it must be Christmas morning. 

"Merry Christmas, Karen."

"Merry Christmas, yourself," she says with a smile. It reminds him of sunshine. 

Neither of them moves, neither of them dares to breathe too loud, afraid to destroy the comfortable silence. He sets aside the blanket she must've dropped on him after he fell asleep, putting his feet on the ground and testing the stitches. The pain is nothing but annoying echo.

"You wanna grab some breakfast and talk?" Frank asks. "I'm paying." 

Karen raises an eyebrow. "Do I hear the old-fashioned gentleman talking?" 

He laughs out loud. "No, but the bleeding guy who got to sleep on your couch." 

She grins at him now, it's blinding. 

"Could be a tradition," he says out of nowhere, and hopes it will be.

 

 

 

 

 

**Author's Note:**

> I know the original story goes different, I just liked the general idea. I also didn't use any physical ghosts, because I didn't want to 'use' (for a lack of a better term) any of the characters for that. I tried to convey hope for his future, that the happy memories don't fade but stay.
> 
> This story is a little different from my usual stuff, so I'd love to hear what you think about it. Comments make my week. Thank you for reading <3
> 
> Title: All I Want For Christmas Is New Year's Day - Hurts  
> Tumblr: qqueenwithoutacrown
> 
>  


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